


For Tomorrow We May Die

by Lys ap Adin (lysapadin)



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Future Fic, M/M, Smut, TYL Arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-18
Updated: 2008-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysapadin/pseuds/Lys%20ap%20Adin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TYL Hibari has arrived in the past; an adjustment period follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Tomorrow We May Die

**Author's Note:**

> Diverges from canon sharply at chapter 217, and ignores the developments of 218 pretty much completely. R for smut; 2478 words that are actually mostly character study. This is, theoretically, a story that takes place in a larger arc of stories about the TYL boys in the past; but those particular stories haven't presented themselves to me. Yet.

Even though he was expecting it, the shock of being dislocated from his proper time, coupled with Genkishi's attack, threw Kyouya off-balance, and he landed (sprawled and somewhat disoriented) on the carpet of a Western-style room.

The first thing anyone said to him was, "Don't take this the wrong way, but you were a real asshole as a teenager."

As greetings went, it was one hundred percent Yamamoto. So was the hand that Takeshi reached down to him.

Kyouya growled at him and ignored the outstretched hand, and propelled himself to his feet, already cataloguing his injuries and conducting a brief inventory: no broken bones, plenty of bruises, tonfa present and accounted for but no boxes, which was less of a problem with no rings to use them with. Presumably his younger self would get more use out of them anyway.

"Did we catch you in the middle of something?" Yamamoto was wearing his affable-idiot smile, the one that made it simple to overlook the intelligence in his eyes.

"Genkishi," Kyouya told him, when he was satisfied with his inventory. "It was starting to become interesting."

Yamamoto whistled. "Wish I could have been there."

"You were," Kyouya said, and tasted copper as he smiled. He waited until Yamamoto had started to grin, and then added, "I think you were even still breathing."

Because it was Yamamoto, he couldn't be too surprised at the bray of laughter that provoked. "You're still a real asshole," Yamamoto told him. "Come on. We can get you patched up."

"I'm fine. Tell me what's happening here." He could hazard a guess, but it would be better to work with accurate information.

Yamamoto snorted. "We can do that while we patch you up."

"You're acting like a herbivore."

"Baa," Yamamoto drawled, and turned away. "Come on."

It was tempting to fight; the adrenaline was still humming in his veins from the unfinished battle with Genkishi--his younger self had better be _enjoying_ himself--and Yamamoto was an adequate sparring partner.

Later. There would be time for that later. For now, information. Kyouya resigned himself to being ministered to, and followed Yamamoto.

\---

"You don't seem surprised," Yamamoto told him, passing the roll of bandages around Kyouya's back one final time and beginning to tie them off. (It was a ridiculous waste of time; Kyouya knew perfectly well what cracked ribs felt like, and Genkishi had only bruised him. Nevertheless, Yamamoto would not be dissuaded.)

Kyouya put his arms down, leaning back and bracing his palms against the bathroom vanity, watching the top of Yamamoto's head as he worked. "Would you prefer I be shocked that you did the sensible thing?" Falling back and regrouping, securing a base and allies to bolster Vongola's position: if Gokudera couldn't manage that ten years out of his own time and in the middle of grief, then he didn't deserve to have called himself Sawada's right hand.

"That's not what I meant." Yamamoto glanced up from his work. "What do you know that you're not telling me?" He tucked the ends of the bandage in and set his hands on the vanity, on either side of Kyouya's thighs, and waited.

"Nothing particularly relevant now," Kyouya told him, and pushed at his shoulders. Yamamoto didn't let himself be budged; clearly he was in the mood to be stubborn today. "We don't have the time it would take for me to fill your empty head with all the things I know, anyway."

"Kyouya," Takeshi said, quietly, and that was all.

His tonfa were a good meter away, with the remains of his shirt and jacket, which was a pity. Kyouya tried shoving at Yamamoto's shoulders again; it was like trying to shove a wall out of his way. Given enough time and inclination, it could be done, but one had to wonder whether the effort would be worth it in the end. "I told you. It's not relevant now."

Yamamoto's eyebrows drifted up. "Things being what they are, it's a little hard to say that, isn't it?"

"Quit trying to pretend you're a strategist." Kyouya looked past his ear, fixing his eyes on the far wall of the bathroom. "There were... reverberations. I could remember how things changed when people began exchanging places in time."

"And that's _not_ relevant how?" Yamamoto demanded. "If you know what's going to happen--"

"I don't now. It seems to have stopped now that I'm here." He was relieved, in a way, now that the dizzying proliferation of memories that were not his own proper memories had converged to this point, here in a bathroom on the second floor of the Cavallone family's Tokyo headquarters. "And things will change now that I'm here."

Yamamoto's sigh gusted across his bare shoulder. "Damn it. We could use an advantage, you know?"

"I think you'll find we have to make those ourselves." Kyouya pushed at his shoulder again. "Give me my shirt."

Yamamoto smiled, a quick flicker of his lips that was there and gone again. "I guess it's not a bad thing that we're so good at that, huh?" he said, and reached for the pile of Kyouya's clothes.

\---

The first thing out of Gokudera's mouth, was, not surprisingly, "How's the Tenth?"

Kyouya felt that there was no call for Yamamoto to give him a significant Look; he could see perfectly well for himself how drawn and pinched Gokudera's face was.

And wounded herbivores were no sport at all.

"Safe, last I knew," Kyouya said, since Reborn's estimation of this Spanner person had been that Sawada would be fine, even in his custody.

Gokudera's shoulders dropped a full five centimeters. "Thank God." He passed a hand over his face. "What's our situation?"

"Bad, but possibly not hopeless," Kyouya said, and then twisted away from Yamamoto's elbow with a growl.

"My hand slipped," Yamamoto said, bland and insincere. "Sorry."

Clearly he was going to have to remind the man whose fangs were sharper at the first possible opportunity.

"It's fine," Gokudera said, wearily. "I'd rather know the truth."

That was certainly something that Kyouya could arrange. By the time he'd finished outlining what he knew for the two of them, Gokudera's shoulders had resumed their hunched position. "Damn," he said, quietly. "Damn, damn, damn."

"Think you can take Genkishi?" Yamamoto asked. He was affecting casual, but his eyes gave him away: they'd gone pure herbivore on him.

"If he can't," Kyouya said, slow and deliberate, "he doesn't deserve the ring he's wearing."

They both flinched, even though they'd deserved it for forgetting themselves like that. "I did mention the part where you were an asshole at that age, right?" Yamamoto said, after a moment. "Dino did his best, but..."

The corner of Gokudera's mouth twitched up. "Some lessons have to be learned the hard way."

Kyouya snorted; at least the man's fangs hadn't been completely blunted. Yet.

Gokudera carried on, almost brisk. "It's good that you're here now. The Ninth wants you to talk to his scientists. We may be able to get a jump on the boxes and the rings." He drummed his fingers on the table, quick and arrhythmic. "And we'll step up Ryouhei's training. Whenever he goes, he can be prepared."

"Tomorrow," Yamamoto said, and there was the faintest suggestion of a razor's edge in his voice. Gokudera's fingers stopped their tapping. "He deserves a night's sleep, don't you think?"

Gokudera started to prickle, and then the two of them shared some sort of wordless communication involving the narrowing of Gokudera's eyes, and the slow arch of one of Yamamoto's eyebrows. "Right, fine," Gokudera said, after a moment. "Tomorrow."

Yamamoto's smile was cheerful. "Sounds good to me," he said, and nodded, and a person would never have known he'd just shown his claws a moment ago.

It was good to know, Kyouya thought, that Takeshi never really changed.

\---

Yamamoto disappeared while Cavallone's men were attempting to see to Kyouya's needs, such as they were--no, he wasn't hungry for dinner (not yet, anyway; tomorrow would be soon enough to face olive oil and garlic), and no, he didn't need a nightcap or pajamas, and no, he didn't _want_ a gun, he was already armed and quite dangerous enough (and it was beyond tempting to prove as much).

It was nearly enough to make him miss Tetsuya's deft service.

Cavallone's men finally let him be when he agreed that, all things considered, a new suit was in order. Kyouya was savoring peace at last and turning down the covers on the bed, when someone tapped on the door.

"Whoa," Yamamoto said, when Kyouya greeted him with tonfa and a growl. "I come in peace." He held up a white bag, as if to demonstrate his good intentions. "Hungry?"

"That depends." Kyouya didn't lower his tonfa. "What's in the bag?"

"Nothing fancy. Soup, tea, onigiri." Yamamoto looked rueful. "Figured you wouldn't want to wait for anything decent."

"You would be right," Kyouya said, and lowered his tonfa.

Yamamoto let himself in, unasked, and left the bag on the desk, and appropriated the armchair for himself while Kyouya unpacked it.

The name of the restaurant on the bag and the containers was one that Kyouya only knew vaguely, but the food, though simple, was adequate, even decent, unless one had standards as high as Takeshi's. Yamamoto watched him eat, and didn't say anything until Kyouya lowered the emptied soup container, satisfied. "If we have time, we can go get sushi from Tousan, and you can get a proper meal."

There were many things to say to that. Kyouya chose the simplest. "All right."

Takeshi smiled. "Okay. Good." He unfolded himself from the armchair, all long legs and easy grace, reminding Kyouya of his urge to spar. "I'll let you get your--" Kyouya caught his wrist as he tried to pass and held it. Takeshi's eyes turned darker, hotter. "No?"

"No," Kyouya said, rising. "Not yet."

There were other ways of working off excess energy. Takeshi was a good partner for those, too.

Takeshi met him, free hand sliding down to Kyouya's hip and dragging him closer, mouth open and hot against Kyouya's. Kyouya growled against his lips; he'd missed having Takeshi's sharpness to set himself against.

Takeshi growled back, no herbivore pretenses left to him, and pressed their hips together. Kyouya nipped at his mouth in response, pleased with the curl of pleasure up his spine, and was willing to let Takeshi work him toward the bed and out of his clothes for the second time that evening.

It was good to have Takeshi's skin bare against his, to press Takeshi back against the crisp sheets and set himself over Takeshi to taste his throat. It was good to feel strong hands on his back, firm even as they moved over bandages and bruises, the sharp ache of them blooming against the knot of hunger and heat low in his belly.

It was better to drive his hips against Takeshi's, grinding against him and tasting the groan in Takeshi's mouth as Takeshi rocked up to meet him, just as hungry as he was. It was best of all to reach between them, wrapping his fingers around both of them and stroking firmly, to have Takeshi arched and straining against him until he broke with a shuddering groan, and to let the fierce edge of heat cut through him, keen as a blade, and leave him limp over Takeshi.

"God," Takeshi said, after a moment, voice rich with satisfaction.

Kyouya bit him, teeth set against the fleshy part of Takeshi's shoulder, to remind him not to sound too smug.

Because it was Takeshi, he just laughed and slid his fingers into Kyouya's hair. "I've missed you, you tetchy bastard."

Kyouya snorted. "You're a sheep. In wolf's clothing."

Takeshi's smile was glittering and lazy. "You gotta admit, it looks good on me."

"I admit no such thing," Kyouya said, reaching for the sad remains of his shirt and wiping them clean.

"Yeah, yeah." Takeshi slid an arm around him and pulled him back down, which Kyouya suffered him to do. "You gonna sleep now?"

"Only if you've managed to miraculously fix your snoring problem," Kyouya muttered.

"They make these things," Takeshi said, leaning for the bedside lamp and turning it off. "You might have heard of them. They're called earplugs."

That was worth another bite; Takeshi yelped, quite gratifyingly. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you," Kyouya warned him.

"And yet you're still more personable now than when you were a teenager," Takeshi marveled, rubbing his shoulder.

"Shut up." Kyouya waited for him to stop squirming around, prodded at his elbow until it was out of his way, and rested his chin against Takeshi's shoulder. After a moment, Takeshi's hand settled in his hair again. It wasn't worth protesting, especially now that lassitude was creeping through him, finally. "Herbivore," he muttered, for form's sake.

"Baa." Takeshi's soft laugh huffed past his ear. "Go to sleep, Kyouya. Tomorrow's going to be busy." He was quiet for a moment. "Assuming we make it to tomorrow."

"It's only a raid. I don't think they'll be able to stop Millefiore overnight." After Irie, there would be Byakuran to deal with, which meant Italy... unless Reborn knew something he hadn't felt like sharing. It wouldn't be the first time.

None of that had anything to do with Takeshi's comment, unless he missed his guess.

Kyouya made himself comfortable and waited; the useful thing about Takeshi was that he wasn't inclined to letting things weigh on him for very long.

"What do you suppose will happen if they manage to defeat Millefiore?" Takeshi said, finally.

"If they're sensible, they'll find their way back here and keep Byakuran and Irie from ever becoming a threat," Kyouya told him. "Beyond that, I couldn't tell you."

Takeshi shifted, restless. "Mm. And what do you suppose happens here?"

"It changes. We change. I sincerely doubt you actually needed me to tell you that."

The shoulder under his chin and the arm draped around his shoulders went subtly tense, and Takeshi's sigh stirred his hair. "Aren't _you_ cheerful?"

"It's better than being dead. If you want--" But no, Sawada wasn't here to be the one who gave comfort.

Takeshi drew a deep breath. "It _is_ better than being dead," he agreed, after a moment. "You have a way of putting things into perspective."

"It's a gift. Go to sleep, Takeshi," Kyouya told him.

"Right. Good night," Takeshi murmured, as his arm curled just a bit tighter around Kyouya's shoulders.

Kyouya let it pass without comment; even he could admit that it wasn't an entirely comfortable thought, necessary though it was.

Neither of them said anything else, but it was a very long time before Takeshi's breathing turned deeper and Kyouya fell asleep with the rasp of it in his ear.

**end**


End file.
